Jack's Birth

When my first grandson Jack was born everybody around was full of congratulations and merriment.  I didn’t understand the sadness that sat on my heart at this amazing and wonderful time.

I had been at the birth.  Rahel had wanted me there alongside my son Miles and I was glad to go, having been through three births myself and feeling something of an authority. But I also felt tentative.  Would I be useful or intrusive?  Was it my place to be there at the coming of my grandchild or should I wait until the little thing was held out to me for inspection in the time honoured way?

I didn’t hesitate long and when Rachel and Miles went in for her to be induced I joined them at lunchtime with Lebanese takeaway and a Scrabble set.  The two of them were bored and restless and in that funny state of disbelief that things would ever come to a head.  The steps to hurry things along had been taken and we watched her, between our bits of banter,  for any little signs of change.  She returned our looks with apologetic ones.  Nothing yet.

What tedium and how undramatic and not like a novel this was.  The baby whose sex we didn’t know was still non existent and for who knew how long.  For ever?

We had our Lebanese picnic on her bed and surveyed the facilities.  Gas and air machine, swabs and wipes and medical stuff.  Solemn and serious in the face of our skittish levity.

Suddenly a little start from Rachel.  “Just indigestion I think.  It’s the Lebanese”

“Tell us about it” we hassled  “What was it like?”

We put away the plastic takeaway boxes and began to stop waiting.  We got serious.

:”I think I’m going to vocalize a bit” said Rachel, now swinging into role.

“And I’ll count” I said remembering the comfort of Graham timing the contractions at my own births.  Through each twisting pain I could hear the numbers and the higher they went the nearer the end the contraction had to be.

Rachel gasped and made a little mewing call, a cross between a dolphin and a currawong.  That seemed to suit her as Miles held her hand.  The afternoon came and went through the hospital window.  The labour progressed ponderously and Rachel sang on.

“How different it is” she said at one point “having a contraction and not having one.”  She was already becoming an authoratitive birther. 

The strain of watching Rachel’s struggle affected Miles and me in different ways.  I longed to swap with her.  Take the pain off her.  It was much harder than being at my own births.  Miles got hungry. 

“I know it seems weird but I need to eat something”  The midwife looked aghast and Rachel weakly backed him up.  “He needs to eat” she said and she seemed eased by the sight of Miles munching a rolled up flat bread from the Lebanese plastic bag.  

Soon after that the readings from the monitor showed that things were going too slowly.  The baby was stressed.  Rachel was getting tired.

“I can’t do it” 

There was despair in her voice and for the first time I thought it might all go horribly wrong.

After an interval a whole lot of people came into the room and permission was asked, rather incongruously I thought, for a medical student to stay and see his first forceps delivery.

I was appalled by the strength it took to pull at the head,  the top of which was now visible, bluish, with wet black hair. It looked dead.  I thought no human head should be squeezed in this way and if that doctor had hurt Rachel or the baby I would kill him. It was not a passing feeling but one charged up with impotent rage.  On looking back I can understand why people are chucked out of labour rooms when things go haywire. 

When the  little face came out it wasn’t a pretty sight but it was blessedly alive.  The rest of the body slithered forth and after all that, it seemed a minor point that  it was a boy.  Anything would have done. 

“He has beautiful eyes”  I said “Black and so big”

But Rachel was looking at Miles with the little thing flopped on her.

“We did it” she said.

I did then feel it was time to go.  Rachel afterwards said she was reassured by my matter of fact departure.

“You just said -well that’s that and headed off” she said “It made it all seem so normal”

Out in the hospital car park my eyes seemed far too dry.  It was all too much to live through.  I couldn’t cry and I couldn’t laugh but I knew that my world had shifted on its axis.  I had become a grandmother and it seemed that I had moved one huge stage further on the journey of my life towards where?.  I felt terribly alone and redundant after the sharing of so much pain and triumph.

It was quite a bit later that I found out  I’d been so wrong to be sad.  There were no answers from Jack to my scary questions, but there was huge solace in the little baby .  Looking into his dark eyes there seemed to be so much experience and acceptance. He couldn’t tell me but wherever he had come from but it didn’t seem to have been too bad.  I’m  now convinced  that there is  no good reason to suppose that the great hereafter is any worse than the great herebefore and it’ll all be all right when the time comes.    Meanwhile  Jack’s enraged cries for what he needs right now – a nappy or some milk, remind me that even if this vale of tears isn’t exactly a picnic for him there’s a lot I can do about it.